


Exploring Castles

by FelicitySapphire



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blacksmith Thorin, Cultural Differences, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Infrequent Updates, M/M, Pining, Rating May Change, Secret Identity, Secret Relationship, Slow Build, Summer Romance, Tags May Change, WIP, Warnings May Change, Work In Progress, Young Bilbo Baggins, mature content, possibly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-03 07:47:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FelicitySapphire/pseuds/FelicitySapphire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We all become great explorers during our first few days in a new city, or a new love affair.” -Mignon McLaughlin</p><p>In the summer before his thirty-third birthday Bilbo Baggins spent much time worrying about his coming of age, while his Took cousins mostly wanted him to spend the time thinking less of his respectable Baggins side, and rather be more like the Took he once was, while he still can.</p><p>What eventually convinces him is the blacksmith that has moved into the old forge in Hobbiton. Their relationship soon grows, from storytelling and sharing pipes, to become an adventurous and secretive summer romance that Bilbo keeps behind the backs of his friends and beloved family.</p><p>But that was all it was to Bilbo: a short, passionate affair meant to be enjoyed in the moment. And when Thorin leaves in August, vowing that he will return, Bilbo goes on with his life, sometimes offering absent smiles to the memories of his adventurous summer. He was simply not expecting that Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain, would turn up twenty years later and ask they be wed.</p><p>Cue meddlesome wizards, prying hobbits, secrets unveiled and loyal dwarves determined to bring the consort home to Erebor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1: Reunions, Fools of Tooks and Summer Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All rights reserved J.R.R Tolkien, but last I checked the wrongs might still be available… first come first served!
> 
> This will be my little WIP/Pet Project for some time to come. I love the stories out there featuring a young, slightly Tookish Bilbo, and this is my take on him. I'm not sure whether I'm making this a "Erebor Never Fell" AU (I probably am).
> 
> The story will proceed in three parts, starting with the summer Bilbo and Thorin first met, then moving on to Thorin's return and the complications upon that.
> 
> There will be a lot of characters from the Shire, and a lot of Bilbo's family will be mentioned or play bigger parts in this. One of them is Adalgrim Took, a character I find most amusing because he, like Bilbo, is half-Baggins, half-Took (and is related to Bilbo on both sides of the family). If you're having trouble keeping track of them all I recommend you google the family trees. They've been very helpful to me!
> 
> I hope you enjoy "Exploring Castles"!

_July, TA 2941_

When heavy knocks had fallen upon his door that evening, right as he was about to eat his hard earned supper, Bilbo Baggins had expected many things.

He had expected that, imaginably, a pack of fauntlings might have snuck out of their soft little beds in their eagerness to hear the end of the tale he had started for them in the marketplace that very afternoon; perhaps it was Holman Greenhand who had come to inform him of a sort of emergency gardening issue, perhaps an infestation of rabbits or racoons, or something equally exciting; with distaste he considered that it might be Lobelia who had come by uninvited to sneak around his home, and size up his walls, in order to contemplate which of her furniture would fit better in which room;  and by the goodness of Eru, he would not be surprised if a wizard – be grey or brown, or even blue – had come knocking, for it would not be the first time!

Yes, Bilbo had expected all of these scenarios, and many more – featuring rangers and other big-folk, perhaps even an elven messenger coming through from Rivendell – but never, not even in his wildest imagination of dragons and whatnot, had he expected this.

At first, all that had struck him when he opened the door was that his unexpected visitor was far too short to be of the big-folk, yet far too stout to be a hobbit. His mind had barely gotten a moment to search for something familiar in the shapely face and sharp nose, or the stout bearded chin and the long dark hair, before his eyes clashed with a striking shade of blue he never had allowed himself to forget.

He felt a sudden rush of air enter his lungs as he gasped, only to be stuck there as he forgot how to breathe. A thousand butterflies hatched in his belly, tickling and pestering until a name finally reached his lips and came out on a shaky breath, as if he could not believe that it could be the truth. “…Thorin.”

No, it couldn’t be… but what if it was?

The dwarf looked back at him with a profound fondness, his bearded face twitching into a gentle smile that spoke of relief, hope and remembrance. A deep voice resonated though the evening air as the dwarf bowed his head, never breaking their gaze, and spoke: “At your service, Bilbo Baggins.”

With those words, spoken in this familiar tone, the last of his suspicions were vanquished from his heart, and he knew it was true. Thorin was in Hobbiton, after all these years, knocking on his door – in the middle of supper!

Bilbo suddenly remembered how to breathe again, and after some shaky intakes of air he regained his ability to speak as well.

“I can’t believe it… you, you’re here.” The grin growing with the words were threatening to split his face as he rambled on, his gaze unable to stay anywhere for long but always finding its way back to Thorin. “…in Hobbiton! Goodness, Thorin—this late! No one comes visiting at this hour, except for… well, goodness, who cares about that – I haven’t seen you since… it’s been, what... well, twenty years! Oh, more or less I reckon, but who’s counting!”

“It would be eighteen, next month,” Thorin supplied softly, and Bilbo couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Of course you’d remember, you stubborn dwarf… but where are my manners!” Bilbo exclaimed, stepping aside to usher his unexpected guest into the entrance hall. “Please, I beg you, come in! I was just about to sit down for supper, and – oh, goodness, why didn’t you tell me you would come? I would have had something prepared for you, baked one of those blackberry pies you like so much – assuming you still like them, of course. Nearly two decades! I would be rather offended if you wouldn’t share a meal with me now!”

“You know that I could never refuse,” said Thorin, rather offhandedly, but there was an incredible happiness in his smile as he accepted the offer. As he stepped into Bag-End and hung his cloak on a hook with a familiarity, as if he had never forgotten, there was such a familiar twinkle in his eyes that, for a moment, Bilbo felt he was eighteen years younger.

* * *

_June, TA 2923_

As Bilbo tied another knot with his rope, he felt the nagging sensation in is belly had become too abundant to ignore for much longer. He had been given several opportunities through day to voice his concerns – from the very moment Adalgrim had first thought of this little trick – but he had not done so.

Now, however, at the very place that would be the scene of the crime, he turned to his cousin with doubtful eyes and told of his troubles. “I don’t think this is a very good idea.”

Adalgrim Took snorted, not even looking up from his own knots as he exclaimed, “Nonsense! This is a perfectly sound plan!”

“Except it’s not, and we really shouldn’t be doing this,” Bilbo murmured, gritting his teeth and clenching the rope tighter in his grip.

At his tone Adalgrim stopped his own work and looked to his cousin with a raised eyebrow. “Bilbo, what has gotten into you? We used to do this all the time!”

“You know what, that’s exactly it!” Bilbo answered; his expression was anxious as he looked to the other hobbit. “We used to do this many _years_ ago, while Sig and I were still dangling from your shirt sleeves! You might not have read though our birth registers as of recently, but I will happily be the one to inform you just turned _forty-three_ , and I will be thirty-three, come autumn.”

“What of it?”

“What, of it? We are growing old!” Bilbo reasoned, but Adalgrim simply grinned back at him.

“That is exactly _why_ we are doing this!”

Before Bilbo could argue any further, Sigismond Took came striding through the bushes, huffing and carrying two holed crates, each containing three cackling hens. “A little bit of help here, lads?”

Adalgrim quickly got up and assisted him in putting the crates down to the ground, already seeming to have forgotten about his and Bilbo’s dispute. “Alright, two down, one to go… Hey, where are Flambard and Ferumbras?”

“Right around the corner – they’ve got the last crate,” Sigismond shrugged. “Where are the Brandybucks?”

“We sent one down the road to do some scouting. The others are setting up across the road – behind those bushes over there,” Adalgrim explained, pointing over to the grand undergrowth down by the road, opposite of their location. If they looked carefully they could spot a pair of fussy feet or curious heads ducking in and out of the leaves as their Brandybuck cousins prepared their part of the trick.

“They’ve done a mighty fine job, too,” Sigismond praised, and Bilbo could not help but roll his eyes with and ‘humph’ with a sort of aversion for the entire business. Sigismond caught it, and looked warily between his two cousins. “What are you two on about now?”

“Bilbo’s just having some nerves is all,” Adalgrim shrugged nonchalantly, to Bilbo’s annoyance.

Sigismond laughed in disbelief. “Bilbo…? Really! Our Bilbo, the master of sneak and mischief! We are talking about the same Bilbo? The one who let those pigs loose in the middle of the Tuckborough market, on the day of Old Took’s party! Four of Maggot’s pigs, painted with one, two, three and five—I think they still haven’t stopped looking for number four! Genius, that was!”

Bilbo cracked an awry smile at the story, but quickly squashed his feeling of pride to listen to his more logical side. “All I’m saying is that we’re no longer irresponsible tweens and little fauntlings that could get away with pinching an entire batch of cherry pies! Well, except Ferumbras… goodness, what would Fortinbras say if he knew what we are teaching his son? He’s only seven!”

“And already a true Took!” Flambard Took chose that moment to stomp through the bushes, carrying the last crate and the little faunt in question, squealing from where he was hanging around Flambard’s neck. The older hobbit laughed as he put down the crate and helped his cousin slide to the ground, although little Ferumbras was already begging to be let back up. “His father would be proud! I’m sure he’d even be here himself, if he could!”

With their heirless uncle Isengrim now as Thain, after the Old Took passed away at quite a grand age, it had already become clear that it would be his father, and then Fortinbras himself, who would inherit the title. Their oldest cousin had to give up on running around the fields with the other Tooks only few years into his thirties, and traded in his title as Trick Master for books on Shire history and politics.

Sigismond and Adalgrim agreed with Flambard’s statement, and the first mentioned turned to Bilbo. “Why the sudden change of mind?”

Adalgrim was quicker to answer, and mocked a serious tone as he said: “I’ll bet uncle Bungo sat him down and gave him the talk again – ‘ _you_ , young gentle-hobbit, are a _Baggins_ of Bag-End’!”

The Tooks laughed merrily at his quite accurate impression, and Bilbo bit his bottom lip tightly, partly to prevent himself from laughing and partly because it is the truth.

Flambard observed this and took it upon himself to cheer him up. “Oh dear cousin, you will have more than enough time to settle down and be respectable for years to come! Every young maiden in the West Farthing is just waiting for you to turn your gaze on them!”

“And assuredly the other Farthings, too!” Sigismond commented, but then got a look of mischief about him as he feigned a besotted sigh and exclaimed in a high-pitched voice:  “Oh, Bilbo Baggins! He is so handsome–”

“—just like his Took cousins!” Flambard shot it, causing good cheer among the Tooks.

“—and his family is so respectable!” Sigismond continued while resting his hands delicately on his cheeks and fluttering his eyelashes. “Oh, if I only knew what will make him yearn for my company, what flowers he prefers in a lady’s hair, and what makes his heart beat for mine…”

“—and what makes him loosen his bracers!”

At that they all fell over howling with laughter at that, leaving Bilbo to scowl at them all. It was not unknown that he had quite a few admirers, but his own disinterest in engaging with most of them, other than for dances at parties and presents for birthday celebrations, had made the whole ordeal quite a joke among his Took cousins.

Sigismond was the first to recover, but there was still a tear in his eye as he returned to his argument. “Surely, you enjoying your last summer before coming of age will not ruin your reputation forever. You’ve been so caught up in your respectability these last years; you’ve had no time to enjoy our little ruckuses every now and then!”

“I’m a Baggins!” Bilbo tried, but he was already beginning to see which path this was taking, and was right when Adalgrim spoke next.

“And so am I! But we’re also Tooks!” he argued, now sounding quite serious. “We’re the last of our generation. Ferumbras is but seven like you said, and aunt Mirabella’s army of Bucklanders are but fauntlings and young tweens! It was always the five of us, growing up, playing mischief and running through the forests…Sig, Flambard, and you and me – and Fortinbras. Now he has a faunt, and our little Bilbo is coming of age.” He smiled, somewhat nostalgically. “This is all for you, cousin. You can’t blame us for wanting to finish your last summer of tween-hood with a blast, eh?”

And to that Bilbo could only swallow heavily as he remembered the good old days when they had all been the masters of the Farthings, spending their days jumping brooks and crossing rivers, plundering fields and getting away in the thick forest underbrush… and then he nodded. _Just for the summer_ _– this last one_ , he promised himself to appease his Baggins side that had now become nothing but a whisper in the back of his mind.

Adalgrim grinned, obviously pleased with his victory. “Good! And I promise you it will be safe. No one gets hurt – really! After all, I wouldn’t want auntie Bella on my back for getting you into trouble, yeah? We might be Tooks, but we know where the line goes.”

Sigismond and Flambard voiced their agreements, a sigh of relief on their breaths.

All the arguing was soon forgotten as they set up the crates facing the road bellow their little outlook, readying themselves for the signal that would be sent when someone was spotted coming down the road. The plan was fairly simple: they would unleash the frenzied hens on whoever was passing by, watch the hysterical scene unfold and steal away into the forest upon the confusion before they could be caught. Bilbo, after going over the plan in his head, muttered to Flambard: “Farmer Maggot is never going to forgive us for nabbing his hens. How are we even going to gather them up again?”

“No worries. If there’s one thing these bird brains know it’s how to find their way home,” Flambard reassured him. “He won’t even notice they were gone in the first place!”

And yet, although that trouble would be solved, Bilbo couldn’t shake the feeling that something would still go terribly wrong.

They sat still for a while after that, leaning onto trunks and stones, occasionally joking around, but mostly just resting and listening to the noises of the woods. It was quite a beautiful summer day. It was a comfortable heat, warmth that didn’t suffocate the way the scorching July weeks did, and the forest floor was kept cool by the crowning leaves above them. The sun shone through the treetops, which waved with the fresh breeze, casting a green shade over the ground below.

Bilbo felt like the forest birds’ singing, accompanied by the calming rushing of water from the river, was going to lull him into sleep, when quite suddenly a high pitched Brandybuck voice carried through the forest and down the hill. “Someone’s coming! With two waggons and seven ponies…!”

Sigismond had quickly found his way up into a tree, ready to give the signal to both his Brandybuck cousins on the other side of the road, and to a ready Adalgrim, Flambard and Bilbo – and also Ferumbras who was quite eager to help. After another half of a minute Sigismond hooted alike to an owl (a signal the Tooks used during the day, as there would be no real owls out to disrupt it) and all the hobbits reacted at once.

They opened the crates and upturned them, directing the cackling hens to flap down into the road, right on top of the traveling company and their ponies.

Had the ponies been of proper Shire bred, or even from Bree, raised side by side with farm animals and fauntlings running between their hoofs every now and then, the birds might’ve just startled them a little, and driven them to a halt, leaving their riders to be baffled most of all. If Bilbo has been the one to get into the tree he would’ve seen that the travellers were strange-folk; _dwarves_ on top of that, and they were not very known for keeping ponies wrought for anything but pulling heavy loads.

What happened next, as a consequence of this foolishness gone through by the Tooks, was absolutely not part of the plan.

The ponies at the back first wailed and moaned, moving around with unease as their riders tried to make them settle, but the ones at the front, where the assault was most severe, were prancing and jumping about, their riders being felled in all directions as they did so.

The first waggon was the worst off, as the two ponies pulling it could not freely shake loose from the birds. As if the driver and the other dwarves were not already perplexed by the feathery assault that had them stumbling about and falling off the waggon, the ponies set off into a wild charge, as if hunted by wolves, and soon enough the waggon tilted to the side letting the loads of cargo tumble down into the river stream. A few dwarves noticed and quickly followed, shouting their curses, with intent of regaining what luggage and crates had fallen into the water.

The hobbits stared on in disbelief as their plan went horribly awry in front of their very eyes. The tilted waggon has chased the Brandybucks out of their hiding spot and they were already dashing away from the scene. Flambard quickly had Ferumbras by the arms, telling him to run down to Hobbiton and get help as fast as his little feet could carry him. Sigismond was still struggling to climb down from the tree.

Bilbo thawed from his frozen state of shock and turned to Adalgrim with a desperate cry: “We have to help them!”

Adalgrim nodded dully, still quite in shock himself, just as Sigismond jumped to the ground next to them. They all agreed, and only a moment later they were sliding down the hill.

The last hens had cleared off by the time they reached the bottom, leaving loads of feathers and droppings in their wake. Sigismond and Flambard were quickly by the Ponies, calming them down and preventing them from hurting themselves on their own equipment. Bilbo (not having dealt with very big animals before) and Adalgrim went towards the dwarves in the river struggling to drag their belongings back up onto shore.

As it turned out, however, dwarves were not the most adept swimmers when dressed with their heavy boots and traveling gears and whatnot.

Bilbo quickly rushed into the water, waddling out after one of the dwarves struggling against the current.

“Hold on!” he cried, but kept to the shallows and out of the stream, instead opting to reach out a hand and shouting for the dwarf to grab a hold of him. The dwarf took it, but with a force that surprised the hobbit. Bilbo felt his otherwise sturdy soles slip on the gravel bellow, and soon enough he was out in the river as well!

The water rushed in his ears, as he was taken under, in a fashion not nearly as pleasing as when it had been soothing him to sleep just a few minutes earlier. In his confusion he panicked, unable to remember which way was up, and for a moment he thought he would surely drown.

A big hand grabbed a hold of his bracer and pulled him up for air which he greedily sucked in. Bilbo, grabbing a hold of the thick, sturdy arm belonging to the hand, somewhat managed to navigate them both closer to the riverside, but it was the dwarf’s strength that pulled them both out and onto dry land.

Bilbo had never been so glad to feel his knees dig into grass and mud.

Breathing heavily, and dripping wet, the two looked at each other for the first time. It was the first time Bilbo had seen one of Aulë’s children, as his mother referred to them in her fairy tales, up close, but at the moment there truly wasn’t much to see. The dwarf was drenched (of course he was, and so was Bilbo!), dark hair hanging in soaked locks both around and across his face. His blue travelling cloak was clinging to his form, making him look more like an oddly coloured, wet animal than an actual person; and eyes, a glaring shade of sky blue, were digging their gaze into his.

“ _That_ ,” the dwarf spat somewhat spitefully, voice rough from choking on river water, “was a pitiful rescue, if I ever saw one.”

He didn’t say much else, grumbled to himself and got up, leaving Bilbo to stare after him in astonishment as he walked away over to his companions that were working on pulling the waggon up straight. With the help of the nearly-drowned-dwarf they succeeded.

_Goodness…_ Bilbo thought to himself, _what in the Lady’s name was that?!_

“Bilbo!” his cousins shouted to him, pulling him out of his trance. They were by his side not a second later.

“Are you alright?” Sigismond fussed, he and Adalgrim helping him stand up on his slightly wobbly feet.

He assured them he was fine, and Adalgrim sighed in relief muttering something about not having to explain to Belladonna why he had let her beloved son drown in the Water.

Soon more hobbits arrived at the scene, armed with rope and hayforks, helping what they could to retrieve whatever packs and crates were floating down the stream. However, it soon became apparent that most was lost or damaged. It was agreed between the travellers and the hobbits that they would all head back to Hobbiton for warmth, dry clothing and sorting out the “matter” at hand.

Bilbo, out of sheer embarrassment, avoided looking at any of the dwarves for the entire duration of the walk to Hobbiton.


	2. Chapter 2: Dinner with the Thain and Supper with the Baginses of Bag-End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belladonna found it all quite hilarious; Bungo, less so.

_July, TA 2941_

Bilbo had quickly, though properly (as a respectful hobbit does), excused himself and left his unexpected visitor to the comforts of his smial. He had felt the overwhelming urge to change out of his evening garb ever since he opened the door and comprehended who was waiting on the other side. To think, all these years gone by, and when Thorin decides to show up on his doorstep he’s in his dressing gown!

“Of course, it truly isn’t the worst first impression either of us has made,” Bilbo mumbled as he walked into his bedchambers, closing the door softly.

He chuckled merrily as recollections and pictures of a thoroughly soaked and irritable dwarf surfaced in his mind. Thorin had reminded of a drowned beast, with the temper and snarl of one, as well.

“But goodness, I wasn’t very much better off, was I?” he reminded himself. If anything it had all made for a good memory.

Bilbo quickly donned his trousers from earlier that day, and a creamy white shirt, content with appearing comfortable in his own home for the evening, rather than dressed in extravagant waistcoats and neckties as he usually would. As he fastened his bracers, his eyes passed over the window where the darkness outside and his candlelit room clashed and created a scurry reflection of him. For an instant he nearly believed in the illusion it painted: an image too bleary to make out the finer details of his face, erasing every last line that disclosed tiredness and age and leaving a younger, _different_ , hobbit behind.

_“—cannot let him act out like this...ruining his future prospects...causing such havoc…doesn’t think twice of his reputation—”_

As he looked on Bilbo felt a lump growing in his throat, but he swallowed and quickly let it go. Time had passed by and touched with him, and that was that.

Right now he was a host with a guest to prepare for; a guest who also happened to be an old, and cherished, acquaintance of his. Eru have mercy – he didn’t have time to dawdle and daydream of days gone past.

So Bilbo pocketed a clean handkerchief and hurriedly left his bedchambers, preoccupying his thoughts with running through the contents of his pantry as he considered what he could possibly cook up on such short notice. ( _Perhaps a nice, warm broth_ , he considered, or he could serve some of the prized ham he had picked up from a butcher at the market that morning. It would go well with the bread he had already laid out for the sausage he had prepared for his now quite forgotten meal).

He found Thorin waiting in the parlour, standing by the cackling hearth, illuminated by the warm light of the flames, yet looking quite the same as when he had left him. It was only then Bilbo noticed the abundance of white scattered through the dwarf’s hair; smooth and silvery, rather like elegant threads of cobweb entwined in the dark mane.

It astonished him, for other than this Thorin did not look a day older than when they first met. Not one crease or crinkle had been added to his face, unless it was too minor to spot, and if anything else had changed Bilbo had not yet seen it. Part of him stared on in wonder, thinking of how slowly dwarves must age (as it was, admittedly, a subject he knew nothing about). Another part, absolutely not the respectable one, was rather satisfied that he wasn’t the only one who had experienced the toll of time.

“I was thinking of making soup,” Bilbo announced, and found that Thorin must not have noticed him walk in, for he was quite startled by his appearance.

“Light-footed, still,” Thorin said. There was a jest in his words, to which Bilbo smiled smugly.

“It’s either that, or you were not paying attention. Have I caught you in deep thoughts?”

“I was admiring your mantelpiece,” the dwarf explained, gesturing to the polished wooden shelf hung above the shimmering hearth. There rested many odd trinkets and dried flowers for decoration – lavender, straws and baby’s breath – but perhaps most notable were the two twin framed portraits of two most prominent hobbits. Thorin must have recalled their faces, for he hesitated before speaking again, and his voice was soft when he did. “Your parents…”

“Oh,” Bilbo heard himself say, his gaze unconsciously slipping to the floor as faded images of his proud father and cheerful mother flickered in his mind. “Passed away, I’m afraid.”

There was a moment of silence after that, but his answer must have been expected. A warm hand – its shape and size a reminder of events of the past – rested on his shoulder. It was a much welcome comfort. “I’m sorry to hear that. I give you my condolences.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo replied sombrely, his own hand coming to rest on top of his friend’s. They stood still, though it was only for a short few seconds before Bilbo cleared his throat, and thought to himself:

 _This won’t do at all_ , he scolded, _you are a Baggins, and gentle-hobbit, with a guest, and this is not very becoming of you!_

“They were quite fine people, no doubt, and though I do miss them terribly they have both been gone for a long time now. I am quite done mourning,” he said out loud, yet perhaps more to himself than to Thorin. It helped, and he soon felt good cheer tugging on his lips. “What I do know is that my father would be rolling around in his grave had he known what an indecent host I am! And I don’t think for a moment my mother would be any less furious. Come, be seated! And I will get started on that broth. Though perhaps you would prefer some ham?”

Their talk was soon steered to food and drink, and Bilbo was especially interested in what his guest had missed of the Shire cuisine. Once Thorin was seated comfortably at the table with a jug of Buckland ale by his side Bilbo dove into the pantry in hunt of some proper vegetables. Soon the kitchen was oozing with appetising scents and brimming with the orchestra of clinging pots and pans, such as it had always been; and the presence of Thorin’s deep, booming voice among them made the absence his mother’s ringing laughter much more bearable.

* * *

_June, TA 2923_

Belladonna found it all quite hilarious; Bungo, less so.

Bungo Baggins, who was a relatively reputable hobbit, and _very_ respectable, had been in the marketplace, standing next to the Thain Isengrim III, when the great group of dwarves and hobbits marched into Hobbiton. His eyes were searching determinedly through the crowd, and there was a scowl on his face, which in turn was as red as the fine, silky waistcoat he wore. Bilbo had felt quite inclined to slip away or hide his face, but he bit his tongue and marched on until he was within his father’s view.

“Bilbo Baggins…!” Bungo had yelled at the sight of him: still damp from his dip in the river and knees caked with mud and grass stains. “I cannot believe this! My son, out causing such trouble!” and Bilbo felt his ears redden terribly at that.

As it turned out their Brandybuck cousins had bolted all the way down to Tuckborough, where their mother was visiting, and informed their uncle of what had happened. They had, doubtlessly, not intended to spill all their beans, but old Tooks were just as cunning as the young ones, if not more so. Needless to say, uncle Isengrim had not been happy. A party from Tuckborough had immediately left for Hobbiton; upon their arrival they had heard that many had departed up the road to rescue the travellers after little Ferumbras Took had come sprinting into the market, screaming nonsense about drowning dwarves, and that Flambard and Sigismond and Adalgrim and _Bilbo_ were all there.

By the time the entire company of rescuers and travellers had made it into town the Thain had heard more or less the entire story, and Bungo Baggins had too.

The dwarves were quickly welcomed into the Green Dragon Inn and the Thain and his party, as well as most of the older hobbits that had been up by the river, came with them. Flambard had been entrusted to bring Ferumbras and the Buckland-Took fauntlings back to Tuckborough, while the tweens, and Bilbo, Adalgrim and Sigismond, stayed.

All in all there was quite a gathering at the inn for being so early in the afternoon. Every seat was taken, with the dwarves on one side of the long table and the Thain and his companions at the other, and all the other hobbits – most from Hobbiton, and some from Bywater – spread through the hall. Some were standing to catch a better look at the travellers, and there were many murmurs concerning the look of them—

“—I’ve never seen so many dwarves before—”

“They look like raggedy bunch. Better not get too close—”

“—fell in the river, all of them! It was quite a business, dragging them up, heavy they are—”

“—I heard dwarves eat metals and drink molten silver—”

“—lost all their cargo, vanishing with the river; scraps will probably come floating down the Water soon—”

“—should we ask them if they’ve heard of Longbottom leaves?”

–and many more things like these were said.

Bilbo, Sigismond and Adalgrim had opted for a small table in the corner, as far away from the long table as they could; the Brandybuck-Tooks had done the same. Bilbo had looked up but once, only briefly noting how an older looking dwarf (his hair and beard were grey) was acting as a spokesman for the dwarven company; other than that he kept his eyes fixed on the wood in front of him, wishing he could disappear altogether.

The unofficial meeting commenced when the Thain cleared his throat and the hall fell silent, as every hobbit ear listened for what would be said, all of which would become gossip for the days to come (for such was the nature of the Shire folk).

First, of course, introductions came, which were proper when meeting stranger-folk.

“Welcome to the Shire, good-folk! I am Isengrim Took the third, Thain, and current head of the Tooks and master of the Great Smials,” began Isengrim, sounding very important and every bit of the Thain he was. “Travelling through here your business in no one’s but yours, but I wish to ask for the name of whom I’m speaking to.”

“Onar, son of An, at your service,” the older dwarf answered gruffly, bowing his head, and the others followed, in turn offering their services to the Thain.

“And I at yours,” Isengrim said, and the pleasantries were over. “As I understand, some of my young – and not so young – nieces and nephews have been causing you grief.”

At this he sent a pointed look over his shoulder at the Tooks down in the corner, and Bilbo looked down again, ears flushing once more in shame.

“I am sorry for the losses of your supplies and I can only hope no sentimental or personal items were lost to the river. We will, of course, compensate you for the damage and take care of any expenses resulting from your delay,” Isengrim continued.

The dwarves seemed quite pleased with this, murmuring amongst themselves with nods of their heads and strange hand gestures. Onar voiced their thanks: “We are glad to accept your offer, Master Thain.”

Isengrim nodded. More talk of this was had, and after agreeing to nurse the ponies and provide material to repair their wagon, the Thain said: “We do not often have travellers though the Shire, and this is certainly not how we wish to be regarded… I would be honoured if you would come dine with me in my home in Tuckborough this eve to further discuss the payments. Until then, please, make yourself comfortable.”

At the mention of free food the dwarves were quite attentive, and it was soon quite apparent that the most prominent similarity between the hobbits and their visitors was their fondness for food and drink.

The offer was immediately accepted, and soon the dwarves were checking into their rooms and chatter erupted throughout the room. Many of the hobbits got up and left as soon as the visitors had disappeared up the stairs. For a moment Bilbo wondered if he should be leaving too, but once the crowd thinned out Isengrim set is eyes on the Tooks, and asked them to sit with him.

Bilbo and his cousins reluctantly got up. By now only a few hobbits remained in the inn: the Thain’s party from Tuckborough and a few Hobbiton hobbits – among them, Bungo. Bilbo avoided letting his eyes meet with his father’s. He was clearly quite disappointed with him, and he was already receiving a scolding from his uncle.

 _Best keep quiet,_ he advised himself, and sat down between Adalgrim and Sigismond in the places where the dwarves had been seated just a minute prior.

Isengrim was looking at them with stern eyes, but there was quite a different demeanour about him. He was no longer solely the Thain who dealt with Shire business and politics and such – he was also taking on the role as uncle of the many hobbits seated in front of him. An uncle and a Took who knew very much about what is was like to have the wild blood in ones veins when still relatively young and reckless. The scolding went on like this:

“I have never—by all that is good, never in my Took life have I ever—well, that would not exactly be true, there was that one time in my tweens when Hildigard and I… no, wait, what I mean to say is that this is highly unacceptable, even for Tooks! Putting travellers to harm for a bit of excitement and mischief! Had your grandfather seen this—well, he would probably laugh and enjoy the company of some stranger-folk… but this is still not acceptable in any regard! Adalgrim!” he exclaimed, looking pointedly at the Took in question. “You are forty-three and about to start courting that Cotton lass of yours—this is very unbecoming. Although I should probably congratulate you, as no Took I’ve ever known has come up with more schemes than you in their life – except for maybe Bella… Oh, where was I. There was Flambard, but I sent him with the faunts, and then… Ah, yes, Sigismond!” Isengrim now turned to him. “The same goes for you! You are quite a bit too old to… well, I suppose we could debate whether or not you are too old to run around adventuring here and there… but I do happen to know that you, my lad, have had your eyes on Miss Holly Brownlock for some time now – don’t give me that look, I might be old an unwed but you are not exactly subtle about it—now where was I again… ah!” and then it was Bilbo’s turn: “Bilbo Baggins! See that is a surprise in itself! Never mind that you’re Bella’s son. A Baggins of age running around and—oh, wait, you’re not of age yet, are you? Remind me, when was your birthday lad? Ah, September! Right, that is all your aunts talk about nowadays, you tweens coming of age. I suppose you are excused then – well, not excused per say, I still expect you to serve the same punishment as your cousins. Now, there were more of you, weren’t there… ah, yes! There’s you lot – all Mirabella’s, I take? My goodness, have you grown! Wait, um, scolding… right, so you first—”

And so it went on for a while with the three Brandybucks, before Isengrim started discussing a proper punishment for their crimes. It was eventually decided that they would all spend one day out of the week that entire summer cleaning in the Great Smials – which might not sound like such a bad thing, but the ancestral home of the Tooks held dozens upon dozens of rooms, many of which had laid untouched for years or simply contained collections of all sorts of odds and ends. Getting through just one of these could take many days, and could be very unpleasant (with all the dust, and mould and whatnot). The Brandybuck cousins took it worst, as they would have to travel all the way from Buckland to Tuckborough, and renegotiated into having to clean Brandy Hall, which was just as well for them.

Bilbo was considerably more embarrassed than his cousins, who were grinning from ear to ear when they exited the Green Dragon, already seeming to forget their punishment for the excitement of having dwarves over for dinner. “Real dwarves – can you believe it? There were ten of them, at least!” Adalgrim and Sigismond had rejoiced, and bid their goodbyes before setting out towards Tuckborough with the Brandybucks.

* * *

It was already quite late by the time Bilbo and Bungo got home.

They walked in silence the entire way, all the way up the Hill and into Bag-End. Once inside the scents of freshly baked bread and seared fish had teased their nostrils, and no matter how angry or embarrassed a hobbit is good food is always put first. His father had bid him get changed before coming down to supper – “I won’t have you looking like a faunt covered in mud at your mother’s dining table” – and Bilbo all but sprinted to his bedchambers and got rid of his soiled clothes, washing his face and hands in his water basin before donning a clean shirt and trousers. Fastening his bracers, quite sloppily in his rush, he quickly left the room, but slowed his sprint to a soft walk as he neared the kitchen.

He could hear his parents murmuring voices grow louder with every step he took, and he knew they were talking about what had happened that day when he heard his father mentioning “dwarves”. Bilbo eventually mustered his courage and took a deep breath, rounding the corner and stepping into the room.

Supper with the Bagginses of Bag-End was always somewhat extravagant, but being quite a busy and reputable family it was, along with first breakfast, the only meals they always shared as a family (unless someone was away visiting relatives or conducting other sorts of business). This evening was no different, and the table was clothed and dished out with everything from baskets of warm bread and rolls, sprinkled with tasty herbs and salts, to seared filets of trout from the Brandywine River – fished, sold, bought and prepared that very day. There were prized tomatoes and juicy peaches, grilled bell peppers stuffed with crumbs and other vegetables, soured cream and a kettle of mint tea being brewed for afterwards, and much more.

If was safe to say that when eating at this table you would not walk away hungry; though, to Bilbo it was much more than that. It was the warmth of the fire, the clangs of pots and pans and cutlery in the basin reserved for dirty dishes, and the good cheer the food created; the clear ringing of his mother’s laughter and the deep rumble of his father’s chuckles as he told them about something particularly amusing that had happened in the market that day; and it was also the time he could spend just enjoying the company of his beloved parents.

Although, by the look in Bungo’s eyes when he made his arrival known he wasn’t sure he would be enjoying this meal much at all.

They had all just seated themselves when Bungo began the scolding Bilbo had been waiting for, quite familiarly starting with: “Never would I have though this of you. You are a Baggins, Bilbo, and three months from turning thirty-three!”

But he didn’t get much further than that before his wife spoke up, and when Belladonna was talking there wasn’t much anyone could say to stop her.

Being from a big and prominent family, and the oldest daughter of the Old Took, Belladonna had needed to speak up for herself very early on in life, lest she would be overlooked among her boisterous siblings and cousins. She was just as boisterous as any of them, and probably quite more adventurous than most of them. Though seen by many as obnoxious as a faunt, she grew to become a very beautiful and determined young hobbit, and soon loved by the entire Shire, though slightly shamed for her adventurous ways. To many it was a blessing when she finally settled down with the very respectable Bungo Baggins, who must have been half mad to marry her in the first place – but perhaps it was her adventurous streaks that had enchanted Bungo in the first place (although he would never admit that, of course).

Even now, in her older days, Belladonna was still quite striking, although her dark and luscious Took tresses were slowly turning grey and the crinkles by her eyes were present even when she didn’t smile. But her spark and energy, and love for her family, had not faded in the least, and she knew just how to wrap them both around her fingers. So that is what she did.

“I, for my part, have no idea what this is going to be about, but I do know that we all love good stories shared over a nice meal,” she said, eyes twinkling merrily as she looked between her much-loved son and husband. “Bilbo, my dear, you wouldn’t mind indulging us, would you? Take it from the start, my love – oh, and pass the bread, if you please.”

And so Bilbo did. He told them all about the plan that had gone awry, how he knew that the ponies must have been the reason why, and how he had attempted to help a dwarf to get out of the river only to be pulled in himself and made thoroughly fun of for his failed attempt (all after he had passed the bread, of course).

It was not completely surprising that Belladonna found it to be one of the best stories he had told yet, and that made Bilbo feel somewhat better.

She hummed pleasantly, looking dreamily out into the air as she replayed the story in her head. “You really should have made better friends with those dwarves, though. I would love to have one around for elevenses – I’ve never really had the chance to properly meet one!”

Bilbo’s thoughts briefly flickered over to the drenched dwarf with the piercing blue eyes, shuddering to think why someone would want to get to know such a rude person.

Bungo was quite stumped where he sat at his end of the table, chewing on his trout and feeling quite ignored altogether. He looked pointedly at his wife, exchanging a few subtle hand gestures and raised eyebrows with her. In the end Belladonna smiled softly at him before turning back to Bilbo, more serious as she said: “Your father is right though, Bilbo. However amusing, someone could have gotten badly injured – and the poor dwarves lost many of their belongings. I know uncle Isengrim has already dealt you a punishment, though a small chore to more directly help the dwarves you have bothered shouldn’t be much trouble. Don’t you agree?”

“What would that be?” Bilbo asked, not really enjoying the thought of having to see any of the dwarves again.

She contemplated this for a moment, giving a long ‘hum’ but not really coming to a conclusion.

“I will think of something,” she said eventually. “Now, eat up so you can go take a bath. I ran some hot water for you in the bathing room. Hopefully you won’t catch anything. It’s still early June, and bathing in rivers with your clothes on, and then walking around wet all afternoon… goodness, I’ll be amazed if you don’t have a fever in a few days’ time!”

He wanted to remind her that he rarely ever had fevers at all, or caught colds or flus more than once annually – but on the other hand, it had been the first time he had fallen in a river while it was still running cold from the melting of spring. Smiling gratefully at his mother he proceeded to go about doing what she had suggested.

* * *

It had been quite a grand idea, Bilbo concluded, for the bath had soothed his mind as well as his body. The steams and rosy scents from his father’s collection of soaps put him at rest, repelling all the hardship and worries of the day. Feeling quite refreshed afterwards he donned his dressing gown and draped a soft cotton towel across his shoulders to keep his wet curls from soaking through the fabric.

He hummed softly on a tune he was fond of as he walked through the hallways towards his bedchambers, considering whether or not to stop by the kitchen for a light snack before going to sleep. He was, though, quite interrupted when he heard his father’s distressed voice as he passed the door of the study, cracked open and letting a streak of candle light into the dark corridor. His mother’s pitch soon joined in, and Bilbo couldn’t help but stop, quietly, and listen in.

A sigh of frustration accompanied Bungo’s next words. “We cannot let him act out like this; it is ruining his future prospects—”

“Oh, Bungo—he’s still young,” Belladonna interrupted. Her voice was a lot calmer than his father’s. “Let him have his freedom.”

Bungo snorted at her prompting. “He has far _too much_ freedom! Running around with his cousins causing such havoc all the time… he doesn’t think twice of his reputation or of the lasses that he should be speaking to at the markets and the parties—people might start talking!”

“Of course they won’t! It’s still early, all just silly plays and girls with crushes, and he might not be ready for that. You know that when I was his age I was running between Rivendell and here as often I as I could! I’m surprised he has yet to go further than Bree,” his mother huffed, but Bungo was not pleased with it.

“He’s a Baggins!”

“—and also a Took!” Belladonna said, for she was having none of it. “And you married one, didn’t you?”

There followed an uncomfortable silence, but Bilbo did not wait for it to end. He left quietly, refusing to let the hurt weight down his footsteps, lest he got caught eavesdropping. Once inside his bedchambers, door soundlessly closed behind him, he threw himself on his bed and did not get up before the morning. His dreams were plagued with clucking hens and burling river water, and stranger dwarves and his father’s disappointed scowl.

However, had he lingered he would have heard the rest of this quite important discussion between his parents, and perhaps Bilbo would have made quite different choices in what would be the very near future.

Back in the study, after Bilbo had fled to his room, Bungo was looking quite unhappy sitting in his creaky old chair, gaze cast down at his wrinkled hands, with a sigh on his lips and dejection flickering in his eyes. Belladonna was standing just a few feet away, eyebrows still furrowed with her irritation from the last words that had been said, but her frown grew softer as Bungo spoke again, voice devoid of all his anger and properness: “We’re growing old, my Bella. All I am saying is that Bilbo does not seem even remotely interested in carrying on our family name.”

“And if he becomes a bachelor, what of it? It does not make him any less of a proper hobbit.” Belladonna’s voice was soft as she said this, for she too was quite conscious of their greying hairs. She sighed tiredly when she took in the sight of her sorry husband and thought of her precious son, so young and heavily weighted with their families and names. “Oh, Bungo… he’s not even of age yet. It is too early to think of this.”

“I know, I know…I just… oh gosh, I just wish that I could…”

His voice broke, and before he could go on Belladonna hushed him, sinking to her knees at his side and folding her aging hands over his. Tenderly she looked into her husband’s eyes, deeply shaded with the worry and grief that had been dealt by time, but in them there was a love for their son, as deep as her own, and she was once more reminded why, in the end, it was Bungo she had chosen all those years ago.

“It takes time to fall in love… you and I, of all people, know that. And if we…” she trailed off, leaving the silence to speak the unspeakable. “…well, so be it – but you have to trust him to make the right choices. He’s your son; I know he will.”

Belladonna paused here, for Bungo looked away and down at their entwined hands, though he gave a few short nods as to reassure her that he agreed (although she knew it was probably more of a reassurance for himself). She smiled then, squeezing his hand a little tighter.

“And I think you tend to forget how wonderful our son is. He might be rash and impulsive – and I suppose I will take the blame for that – but he is also _kind_ , and gentle, and clever and strong… all his little cousins look up to him. Especially Drogo – and he’s but fifteen! I have a hard time hiding the pride on my face whenever I hear the ladies down in the market talk of how well he has grown, and how handsome he has become. He spends time teaching the fauntlings new games, and gives them advice when playing conkers. The other day he helped Mrs Cotton carry her rations all the way down to Bywater, without a second thought! All of Hobbiton adores him. Goodness, Bungo, when _our_ Bilbo is in love I promise you will see it, for every hair on his head will be glowing with it.”

She gently embraced him as he began shaking softly. His eyes were glittering wet, a great sadness present in them.

“Oh, Bella,” he sobbed into her bosom, while she brushed her delicate fingers through his thinning curls that were once lush and golden from the light of the sun, “it is so… _so_ difficult.”

She didn’t reply, but her unwavering hold was answer enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last part wasn't strictly necessary, but I felt it would be my only chance to give a deep first-hand look at the characters of Bungo and Belladonna, for although they will mostly be portrayed as the strict father and eccentric mother in this story they are, at the end of the day, caring parents - and Bilbo means the world to them.
> 
> (Perhaps it's obvious, but here's a friendly reminder that in TA 2923 Bungo Baggins was 77 years old - he died in 2926, aged 80. His wife followed eight years after, aged 82.)
> 
> Now, I had fun writing this chapter, though I'm still getting in tune with the dialogue.
> 
> Onar the dwarf isn't very central in the story, but I made him the spokesman for the dwarfs to make Thorin's part in this dwarven company (which, of course, isn't The Company TM) a little more mysterious and intriguing.
> 
> Sorry for the lack of Thorin in this chapter, although I can promise he will make an appearance (and actually speak more than one sentence) in chapter three.
> 
> Thank you all so much for the great response! Your comments are delightful, and drives me to keep writing (just hit 11k, yeah!!), and I've already made changes and thought through some things thanks to some very intriguing mentions. In the end I just want this to be the best it can be, so every word and kudos is helpful and inspirational.
> 
> I'm very curious about how you found this chapter... but, like always:  
> Response is highly desired, but never required!
> 
> Have a nice week, everyone - I know I will, because *DUN DUN DUN* Desolation of Smaug. It's finally here. Excuse me while I go freak out now.


	3. Chapter 3: Of Luncheons and Charred Coal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first thing he noticed about the dwarf was that he was quite different from the ones Bilbo had imagined from his mother’s fairy tales.

It was not that Bilbo did not like hobbit lasses.

No, to the contrary, he rather enjoyed their company. All the ones whom he had met were either very pretty, or very nice, and in many instances: both. They tended to come by every piece of gossip there was, and were quite good at keeping up to date with what was happening in every borough and farm in every farthing; which parties were held when and which vendors were putting out the best offers on high quality goods; and they also tended to be better dancers than the lads.

Yes, Bilbo did like hobbit lasses, but he liked them much better before they became tweens.

As fauntlings they had all run around together, little girls and boys alike; playing in the fields for long hours under the seething sun (or pouring rain, never minding the worst of weather), and sparing no thoughts to how they had gotten their trousers and skirts as dirty as the ground itself whilst crawling around in the tall grass for a game of hide-and-seek. They would all, later, strip off their clothing and jump into a shallow forest pond for a quick bath and more games, splashes and gleeful squeals echoing through the trees, before each pair of little feet ran home to their respective warm smials – but not before catching a dozen fireflies and competing who could catch that certain one that glowed slightly brighter, or with a slightly different colour, than the rest of them.

Then, as the years came and passed, things slowly changed. The girls would much rather not have their now prettier dresses – patterned and laced, or tied with more costly silk ribbons – get dirty; they screamed when a prank was played and they did; they would never even think of bathing in the nude, no matter how warm the water or how seething the sun, and would sooner retch than miss the curfew for dinner or supper because of a few measly fireflies.

They did, in Bilbo’s opinion, become slightly more boring as they became tweens. Sure there were other, newer, more grown-up games that they wanted to play, and Bilbo – like all the other lads – had engaged in their kiss-and-never-tells and I-dare-you-tos, even when his beloved glass jar, with the punctured lid that his mother had made for him, was resting beneath his bed, just waiting to chase through the forests again.

Later, as he grew a bit older, he supposed he understood the appeal of ribbons in long wavy hair, and new colourful dresses for this party and that event. He also supposed he understood the appeal of these new slightly different, slightly exciting games, and if they had encouraged him to pursue a tumble in the hay with lass, or lad or perhaps even both, that was very much his own business thank you.

What he did not understand the appeal of was marriage – as a consequence of love. It was not that he disliked it, in any way. He saw how couples around the Shire were quite happy together, and he definitely saw how his parents were still deeply in love with one another.

But he also saw how his mother’s eyes would sometimes stray from whatever had her occupied, and then longingly look out to the East for a while. She would then shake her head before returning to her mundane chores, sewing this cloth and baking that tart and cleaning those shelves… and thus Bilbo knew that although she was very happy here with him and his father, loving them both from the bottom of her abundant heart, there was still something out there _worth longing for_.

Bilbo could understand, to some extent. He loved his books and scrolls, filled with stories and adventures, much more than he thought he could love any hobbit other than his family. And even if, one day, he did settle down he knew he would still be longing for running in the fields and imagining his own adventures – a fantasy inspired by his mother’s tales and his many storybooks.

He knew who he was though – Bilbo Baggins, a Baggins of Bag-End – and he knew how it was quite expected of him to eventually become the respectable owner of the Hill and its lands, and the suitable Head of his father’s family.

But he also knew Adalgrim had been quite right. He was, besides, a Took, and a young one at that, and this was the last summer during which he could blame his youth for his misgivings. Surely, he could step one foot over the figurative line he had painted in his mind and let a few bygones be bygones. He would be his own master quite soon, and before that happened he should take his jar out to catch fireflies, if only once more, before leaving such to the next generation of young hobbits that would run by his bench in the mornings – where he would sit and smoke his morning pipe, like the respectable hobbit he would be…eventually.

* * *

It took two days before Belladonna came up with a fitting chore for his punishment.

Bilbo came into the kitchen from the atrium. He had, he noticed with disfavour, just missed a nice and quite substantial second breakfast consisting of fresh strawberries, syrups and buttery pancakes. Usually he would not miss out on such a treat, but he had spent the morning going through his mother’s vast collection of maps and books and gotten rather besotted with a collection of original and translated works in Sindarin. In the end he had picked up a poetic one which he decided to study further.

While walking closer he had heard a familiar voice in conversation with his mother, and upon entering he saw that Rosa Took, his father’s cousin, had come by from Tuckborough that morning. She sat by the end of the table, a cup of steaming tea cradled in her gentle hands (flavoured with roses, he dared guess, for she loved the irony of it), and she smiled at him as he strolled in.

Belladonna had been leaning against the counter, her back to the doorway, so she had not seen him before following Rosa’s smile, finding Bilbo at the end of it. A smile of her own lit up her face as she regarded him, and she exclaimed: “Ah, Bilbo! Just the lad I was looking for!”

Bilbo returned the smile and nodded, and then respectfully turned to their guest, as was proper to do: “Morning, Aunt Rosa. How are you doing?”

“Oh, just wonderful, my lad,” she replied, and then raised a jesting eyebrow. “I heard you will be spending some time down in Tuckborough in the weeks to come.”

Bilbo couldn’t help but let a miserable moan escape him at the reminder. “Yes, you’ve heard right. I will be going down first thing tomorrow morning.”

Rosa laughed, but in a kind reminiscence rather than sour spite. “Ah, to be young…” she spoke, a floating expression on her gentle face. “My boy Adalgrim sure is a Took by name, but I’ve put a bit of Baggins in him as well. He’d go quite mad with only Flambard and Sigismond to share his chores…he’s quite glad to have you, I’m sure.”

Bilbo nodded curtly, agreeing, but still somewhat grim about the entire business. Swallowing, he let himself forget about it in favour of turning to his mother. “You were looking for me?”

Belladonna looked up from the counter again; away from the cup sized jars of jam she was neatly preparing and placing into one of her cherished woven baskets. There they were hidden beneath a crisp white cloth embodied with colourful flowers and leaves.

“Ah, yes… auntie was just telling me about our visitors,” she started, and Bilbo raised his eyebrows in question. She grinned then, a mixture of exhilaration and delight on her face. “As it turns out, uncle Isengrim invited them to stay for the Midsummer feast – and they’ve accepted!”

Bilbo felt his jaw go slack as he comprehended what had been said, and Rosa stifled a giggle to supply her sister-in-law’s tale: “It is true! During our little dinner party a couple of nights ago they shared that they are all craftsmen, of some sort. Tinkers, tailors, smiths, chefs and scribes, the whole lot of them!” she explained hastily. “They were on their way to the Blue Mountains to practice their crafts there, but are not at all opposed to stay in the Shire and offer their services for a month or so. It’s all quite exciting!”

Belladonna’s mirthful expression revealed that she could not seem to agree more. “They were invited to go wherever they pleased in the Farthings, wherever a service of theirs might be needed… and guess who moved into the old forge last night! Right here, in _our_ Hobbiton!”

“Um… a dwarf, I’m guessing,” Bilbo said.

“A blacksmith, my dear Bilbo!” his aunt tittered.

“We can finally get our saucepan and locks fixed, without heading to Michel Delving to find a proper smith! And he’s a dwarf! Best metalworkers you will find in this day and age,” Belladonna said. “And this makes my little chore for you much easier to accomplish! Here you go!”

She then twirled around again and handed him the basket she had been preparing rather neatly. Bilbo curiously lifted the cloth, taking delight in breathing in the scent of fresh bread and jam and cheese that had been neatly arranged inside. He licked his lips. “Is this my lunch?”

But his mother promptly smacked his hand as it wandered too close to the goods. Rosa laughed from her spot by the table and said: “Hands off, boy – those are not for you.”

Bilbo looked puzzled at the basket while nursing his hand. “Then whatever is it for?”

“It’s for our new resident dwarf, of course!” Belladonna chided, once again holding out the basket for her son to take now that she knew he wouldn’t throw himself over it. “Now, here… I want you to bring him this for elevenses. You can talk to him, get to know him a little, and invite him up for tea this afternoon!”

Bilbo rolled his eyes, though he had half expected there to be ulterior motives. Of course his mother would come up with a little scheme like this if it allowed her to host stranger-folk at her table. He was feeling a little uncertain about the matter, though…he already wasn’t on a very good foot with one dwarf, possibly not any of the others either, and there was no guarantee that they would be good company. But at the same time, the thought of talking to a real dwarf – holding a proper conversation with someone who must’ve travelled far across Middle-earth and seen so many cities, rivers and forests, and other unbelievable sights — was quite exciting, for him and his mother both.

He gnawed on his lip to seem like he was considering it, but in the end he knew he would not be able to refuse. His shoulders slumped in defeat. “Goodness… oh, fine. I will.”

Belladonna let out a squeal of excitement that she seemed to have contained since the moment she first mentioned the dwarf. “Oh goodness! How thrilling! Who knows where he has come from? Perhaps the Iron Hills or even returning to the Blue Mountains… or perhaps even Erebor! Oh, Bilbo, hurry along! It’s already past ten and I’m not getting any younger!”

“Oh, only you Bella, only you…” Rosa laughed.

Bilbo couldn’t help a smile of his own at his mother and her endearing happiness, and quickly complied by setting out the door – basket on his arm and his book under the other. “I’ll be back by tea, then. Good day, auntie. Good day, ma!”

The last he heard before closing the door was Belladonna calling after him: “And ask him if he prefers sausages to ham!”

* * *

The forge in Hobbiton was built on the south side of the Water, looking straight over at the Mill and to the marketplace beyond. It was a short walk, barely five minutes for a young hobbit lad who was used to taking long walks around the Farthings (unless he was running, of course), and it didn’t take Bilbo very long at all to get there.

On his way he greeted his neighbours and friends on Bagshot Row, and the homes beyond, with various “good mornings” and “how do you dos”. He manoeuvred his way through the lively marketplace, dancing around stalls, vendors and customers, lifting his basket up high to avoid a flock of fauntlings rushing by him, and regrettably turning down their offer to come with them and dig for worms to use as bait (but he promised he would show them some good fishing spots sometime in the afternoon). He waved politely to a pair of blushing young lasses he recognised to be Boffins from Yale, probably there to visit their relatives in Overhill. Soon he was through the market and on his way past the Mill. Mrs Sandyman offered him a buttered bun hot out of the over as he walked past, which he accepted gleefully before continuing over the bridge. It was hardly a second breakfast, but it was tasty and satisfying nonetheless.

It was a strange thing to see the forge’s dark chimney smoking and burning.

The old forge had not been in use for decades – and certainly not in Bilbo’s life time – but it had always stood there, right by the little cottage that had once served a lone blacksmith. When he had been much, much younger (perhaps eight or nine, but no more) the Hobbiton fauntlings would tell ghost stories of it and dare each other to break in. As far as he knew no one ever had, for while it was not in use the adults still kept it safely locked up. They would, occasionally, have the smith from Michel Delving come by to maintain it and keep it from rotting away, as though someone might have use for it one day.

 _At least, he must’ve done his job properly_ , Bilbo concluded, for the forge was now blazing with life.

He slowly stepped up to the door, listening to the steady rhythm of clinging metal from the inside, and watching the dancing red light that shone through the crack under the door. The scent of burning coal and ashes was very unfamiliar, quite different from twigs and firewood in the hearth during long winter days. It was new, and rather exciting, and Bilbo found he quite enjoyed it.

Not wanting to interrupt what he deemed to be a craftsman at work, he decided to wait for the clinging to stop. Once it did, after a hiss of steam and the clang of something heavy being put down, he knocked thrice.

At first there was nothing, so he tried again and nervously added, “G-Good Morning! Um, can I have a moment of your t-time, please?”

It took a little while, but after some shuffling and grumbling the door swung open, and a dwarf stepped into the opening.

The first thing he noticed about the dwarf was that he was quite different from the ones Bilbo had imagined from his mother’s fairy tales. While the dwarf spokesman, Onar, had been stout and bearded, gruff and round faced with a nose reminiscent of a potato in shape, this one – though he would never admit to it outside the confinement of his own thoughts – was, in a sense, incredibly handsome.

His face was quite shapely, with high cheekbones and a sharp, regal nose. He had a beard, albeit far shorter than the given expectations, though Bilbo supposed it was practical for working in a forge. Two quite outlandish braids – like the ones a girl might think to weave through her tresses, and adorn with flowers to draw attention – ran down on either side of his noble face, and the rest of his dark, shimmering mane was held back in a simple tie. His skin was darkened by the dirt and the warmth of the forge. Bilbo couldn’t help but take notice of his wear: a light tunic shaded a dark blue and dirtied with black stains, worn over a very, very sturdy upper body by hobbit standards. It was nothing like the heavy traveling gear he had seen on all the dwarves a few days earlier. It was to deal with the heat, undoubtedly, for it was cut open at the neck and running down his chest. Before his wandering gaze could discover just how far down it went, a voice at the back of his mind made him snap his head up to look straight into a pair of strikingly familiar blue eyes.

While his mind slowly worked to place them together with a slightly different face at a slightly different time the smith’s regal features twisted into a more recognizable expression of distaste, and everything clicked together just as the dwarf opened his mouth.

“You…!” was accusingly heard from a deep, throaty voice, but in unison with a lighter one that he recognized as his own.

Still, it was the only confirmation Bilbo needed: this was definitely the dwarf from the river.

Bilbo was aware that they had both been staring numbly at each other for quite a while before anyone spoke again. The dwarf had composed himself first, tiredly rubbing his obvious dislike away from his face before crossing his arms and glaring expectantly at the hobbit.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, pulling Bilbo out of his stupor.

“What am I—me…? I live here! Oh, well not exactly in this house – but here, in Hobbiton!” he answered, a flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck as he fumbled with his words. “I should be the one asking _you_ what you are doing here.”

“I’m working…in the forge.” The following ‘obviously’ needed not be added, for it was written all over the dwarf’s face.

“Oh,” Bilbo simply said. And then it dawned on him. “OH.”

Of all the dwarves that had travelled through the Shire that day, the one who had come to stay in Hobbiton was the exact same one he had thoroughly embarrassed himself in front of in his failed rescue attempt.

While Bilbo went through his realisation and the following inner turmoil the dwarf seemed less than amused at his antics.

“Unless you have a reason to be here… I am rather busy,” he said and gestured to the forge, “and I will not have my time go to waste arguing nonsense with a halfling.”

“H-Halfling…!” Bilbo spluttered, unbelieving of what he had just heard. The nerve of the dwarf! Settling for work in a town of hobbits and then insulting them in such a manner. “I’m not half of anything, I will have you know!!” he defended fiercely.

Though the dwarf only huffed, “Half-of-a-wit, surely.”

At this point Bilbo only wished to let go of all property and hospitality and smack the rudeness out of the dwarf with the nearest hard object at hand, and then be on his way. It was through clenching his teeth and hands that he noticed his mother’s basket still in his grip, and Bilbo remembered that he hadn’t come there to banter and throw insults with a dwarf. He was there to make up for his wrongdoings, and to deliver a welcome gift on his mother’s behalf.

Biting down hard on the inside on his cheek, he steadied his breathing and calmed his temper, exhaling his frustration in favour for raising the basket and holding it out for the blacksmith to accept.

“Here,” he said, but the dwarf did not move to receive the gift, opting for staring at Bilbo with a mixture of confusion and disinterest, as if whatever work he was currently occupied with was more important than this. Bilbo sighed, and prompted: “Take it! It’s for you.”

Slowly the dwarf took the basket from him, curiously lifting the adorned cloth to peek at the contents. Bilbo saw something akin to surprise on the dwarf’s face, and then he looked up with the same puzzled expression, but his impartialness fading considerably.

“So you’re a grocer, then,” he said, “when you’re not out letting wild birds loose on unexpected travellers.”

And Bilbo could barely take it after that. Being called a grocer was one thing – and really, _he!_ A Baggins, and Took, a grocer! _Ha!_ – but being called on the mischief he was already regretting and paying for was taking a shot far below the belt, and it hurt his _pride_.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen that way,” he defended, masking his anger by speaking calmly, “We didn’t know you were… dwarves. And we did try our best to help!”

The dwarf snorted at that. “Your best could hardly be anything at all. It landed you in the river as well, requiring _me_ to save the both of us – so abundant is the help of the halflings.”

 _Never mind property_ , Bilbo thought as he glared hotly at the smith, _I am far done with this thrice damned dwarf and his insults!_

“Thank you,” he gritted out through a tight lipped smile that he did not even attempt to pretend to be real, “is what most people would say. That’s the way we do it in the Shire. But then again, I suppose it’s quite obvious that they don’t teach you much in regards of _manners_ and gratitude where you are from, Mister Dwarf – I’m _sorry_ that I didn’t see it sooner, though I do, after all, only possess half-of-a-wit, or so I’ve been told. Good Morning!”

And with that he turned on his heels and didn’t look back, leaving the dwarf to think whatever he might about Bilbo Baggins and his sort, for Bilbo certainly did not care.

Confounded be all if he would ever invite someone like this dwarf to a meal!

* * *

Bilbo got home around tea time, as he had promised, but his mood was not a very good one. He had spent his day trying in vain to study the poems under one of his favourite trees on the road going to East Farthing, but his thoughts had been plagued with the episode from that morning, driving him mad with the details of the “meeting”. So bothered had he been that he did not have it in his heart to stop and play with the Bywater fauntlings on his way home, nor show the Hobbiton ones the fishing spots he had promised.

Belladonna was setting the table as he trekked in through the parlour, putting down his book, and seemed anxious to know how his delivery had gone – which, of course, was the first thing she asked about.

“Good,” Bilbo answered, dismissively, and hoped to avoid further questioning.

But his mother would not be brushed off. “Good. And…?”

“Yes, good – very well, he really liked the… bread.”

He knew he was lying through his teeth, but it would be so very humiliating for his mother to know how indecent he had acted… and how rude the dwarf had been when she had wished so desperately to hold a conversation with him.

Belladonna hummed softly, putting down the last of the plates and cutlery. “And is he coming this afternoon?”

“Oh—oh, no, very busy was he, no time at all for tea, newly opened and all, ahem.”

She could, of course, see right thought him, but did not make mention of it.

“I see…” she hummed instead. “Alright, we shall have to attempt again then, shall we not? Why don’t I make him something for elevenses tomorrow, and you can drop it off after breakfast before you head to Tuckborough.”

“Oh, yes–absolutely,” Bilbo agreed, even though the last thing on earth he wanted was to talk to the dwarf again.

Belladonna smiled, and there was a slight glint in her eye. “Great! I would absolutely love to meet him after all, this mister… hm. Bilbo, remind me, what was his name again?”

“Oh, um…” Bilbo fumbled, suddenly reminded that for all the insults and name-calling he had not learned the dwarf’s name, nor introduced himself as he should have done. “Ah, he was very, very busy you see – we didn’t talk much at all, really.”

“Hm… Bilbo, dearest, you make it sound like you didn’t go see him at all,” she said teasingly, “Shall I need to have you describe him to me so that I know you didn’t just run away with the food for your own lunch?”

Bilbo flustered a little when he realised that out of all the things he actually could do for his mother was describe the dwarf with great accuracy, from his regal nose down to the shade of his piercing eyes.

Belladonna sighed. “Well, I shall still have the basket ready on the morning. Did you place it back in the kitchen for me?”

“I left it at the forge,” he said, a sort of dread creeping up his back as he grasped it was the first truthful thing he has said that afternoon. “I forgot to pick it up on my way back – I’ll do so right now. I won’t be a minute,” he said hurriedly, and his mother just shook her head as he rushed out the door.

Bilbo quite dreaded the thought of seeing the dwarf again; he was mentally preparing himself for whatever scenario might come to pass once he got to the forge as he ran down the Hill and across the bridge… but he had not expected that he would find the basket quite quickly. There it was, though: resting on a bench right outside the forge’s door – like the dwarf had expected him to come back for it, eventually, and had not wanted to see him again, either.

As he picked up the familiar item, lighter from the lack of content except for the neatly folded cloth, Bilbo found that he did not mind that at all.

“At least we have this in common, if nothing else,” he muttered to himself as he walked back up the path towards Bag-End. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, I don't like the air at the end of this chapter. I will head back to the drawing board and possibly rewrite the last part once I'm more confident in writing Thorin. Until then, it might be a while until I can properly write on this again... I'll try, but I usually don't post things I'm not happy about. *sighs*
> 
> I'm also currently home for Christmas so I'm spending more time with my family than with anything else, and I have exams coming up in January, sadly.
> 
> And DOS came. I'm shattered all over the place right now.
> 
> Other than that, thank you all so much for your support! It's really helping me to take the story in some interesting directions.
> 
> Also, I really need to brainstorm for sub plots. While I'm confident in the main story I'd still like to develop the universe around it some more, explore characters and flesh out the bones a little.
> 
> Goodness. Anyway... Thank you for reading! Happy Holidays!!

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP. Updates will be infrequent.
> 
> This work is not beta read. (If you wish to beta, or simply proofread, future chapters, please contact the authoress). xoxo
> 
> Comments/feedback are desired, but never required. Cheers~


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